


The Painted Man

by Broken_Clover



Category: Guilty Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27156997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broken_Clover/pseuds/Broken_Clover
Summary: Daryl is the king of a dying city on the verge of collapse. In one last act of desperation, he seeks out a guardian spirit said to inhabit a local pond for help.
Relationships: Daryl/Venom (Guilty Gear)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	The Painted Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MamaNana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaNana/gifts).



> A (slightly late) birthday gift for Nana! Hope you like it!
> 
> I wanted to try and play with the usual power dynamics for this, for once Daryl is the one stumbling over himself!

Illyria was dying.

Those three words still remained unspoken in the palace’s debate halls, where dilettante politicians were always overly-cautious with their tongues. But it remained on everyone’s mind, sitting by the table and leering over everyone who sat at it.

It was still a small civilization, but she had shown such promise in the past few decades as it had sprung forth from nothing, so quickly and effortlessly it was as though the goddess of fortune had blessed the ground it was built on. Nobody could say for sure what the issue had been. Poor organization, issues with neighboring kingdoms, some curse placed by a higher deity- no matter what it was, Illyria was dying. Her people were ill and starving, ravaged by disease and with nary a spare coin in her coffers to rectify the injustices. Desperation brought forth anger, and anger brought violence, perfectly good people being pushed to thievery in order to fend for their families.

Daryl knew only he could take the blame for it. Even if he didn’t singlehandedly murder every individual piled on the death wagons hauling corpses to the city outskirts every morning, he was king, and the duty of caring for Illyria and her people fell on him. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t target the source of the issue. Whenever he could manage to push relief legislation past the thickets of bureaucracy, his efforts always petered in execution, placating the brewing storm for a scant handful of months before the funding ran out again, quicker and quicker every time. He was desperate.

It was a wonder the fitful militant groups that had sprung up hadn’t managed to break down the palace doors and assassinate him. Daryl knew his more pragmatic outlook would never give him the overwhelming reputation that his predecessor did- though if Daryl could be spiteful, he had half a mind to say that damn bleeding heart’s constant handouts were a major reason behind their problem. But spite wouldn’t get him anywhere, and neither would sitting on his ass. The stakes of the situation he found himself in were pushing his hand, though not in the way some may have been expecting.

Illyrian culture had its fair share of deities and folklore, but he had never put much credence in anything aside from hard work. Of course, he bore no ill will towards those who did, but it just wasn’t his place. Still, as king, he was well familiar with the array of figures that decorated temple walls, or the carved effigies of wood and stone people placed in their yards and houses to draw in blessings, good fortune, health for their children.

At any other point, Daryl would have scoffed at the idea. But there weren’t many ideas left to be had. If his final plan were to fail, at least he could say that he exhausted all of his options before everything well and truly had fallen apart.

Daryl wasn’t just content with a prayer, though.

++++++

The Sea of Glass wasn’t really a sea (it was a lake) nor was it made of glass (full of water, instead). But the thing about mythology was that it was all about the fantastical. ‘The Sea of Glass’ sounded much more magical and elusive compared to ‘a Lake of Water’- Daryl supposed it was less redundant, too.

He felt a boot slide in the dirt, and he clung on tightly to the clifftop before he could be dragged down by his own weight. He couldn’t afford to be so distracted on the cliffs, he’s known many who had lost their footholds and plummeted from the top. They had all made the climb for the same reason as he, for the being who was said to dwell there.

The figure had many names, vague epithets that only suggested something mystical and powerful. But of them all, Illyria knew one such title best- The Painted Man, allegedly for the spirit’s beautiful markings. The Sea of Glass was its home, its sanctuary, and anyone who dared approach it with malice was said to be thrown back over the cliffside by a gust of bone-chilling wind called forth by the Painted Man. But those who approached with pure intentions were said to be blessed with an apparition that would...well, that part varied by myth. One of the most common claims was that he would grant a wish in exchange for an offering. Hopefully it had some credence to it.

Daryl pulled himself up over the edge and felt around his coat to make sure nothing had fallen out. He had no idea what a spirit would consider a valuable offering, so he had tried to cover all the bases with items Illyria could provide. A chunk of sweet roll, baked by hand, herbs and fruit grown in her soil, a sheaf of soft, woven fabric, an effigy of the spirit carved in wood and painted, a silver ring inlaid with pale blue stones, a handful of old coins, and a vial of water from a pure spring. He really didn’t know if it would do any good, but what did he have to lose by trying?

The man felt his breath leave him as he turned to face the water. He had heard of it before, but never been so close. It seemed the name was apt. In the early December chill, the surface had frozen into a mirror-like surface that sparkled the way that diamonds did.

It reminded him that the sun wasn’t going to stay around for much longer. That was how the ritual was supposed to go. An offering at dusk in the lake’s center, and the spirit would be called forth with a prayer. It sounded like a deathtrap even if he managed to make it back to shore, still needing to climb back down the cliffside in the dark or risk freezing overnight, but...what did Daryl have to lose anymore?

At least he’d lived in Illyria long enough to know how to handle ice. Moving slowly, the king took short, shuffling steps while bent slightly forward to adjust his center of gravity. The ice appeared thick, but Daryl knew ice was something not to be trifled with. No matter how cautious one was, there was always the danger of it shattering, so crossing ice was something to always be done with great caution and a hint of fear.

How ironic, he supposed. It reminded him of politics.

Maybe the reason it was called a sea was because it seemed so far to get to the center. From the edge, it looked small, but perhaps it had been a trick of the light. It felt like an endless trudge, but the opposite shore never felt any closer. The waning light was making it hard to see much of anything aside from his own two feet beneath him.

On instinct, Daryl found a place to kneel down on the ice. He pulled the fabric from his pocket, spread it out in front of him, and placed the various other items on top of it.

“I call you, spirit.” He murmured, summoning a flicker of fire magic to light the candle. “I pray for your blessings-”

A cold breeze brushed past. Despite himself, Daryl felt his breath catch until he realized it wasn’t blowing him back off the mountain.

“I pray for your blessings in my time of need.” He continued. “I pray not for my own boons, but for Illyria’s. Her people are dying and restless for help I can no longer offer. I instead offer to you these items of my homeland. I pray there is some respite you can give the people in exchange.”

“I…” Daryl trailed off. “I have not sent a blessing in many moons. Perhaps that makes it foolish of me then, to only now beg for assistance during my bleakest hours. But Illyria is my home, and her people are under my protection. I have done everything I can think of to aid them, but your power is even further beyond mine. Perhaps there is something that can still be done, if your gracious soul would accept my humble offerings.”

_**Intriguing.** _

Daryl threw himself back in shock, and through some miracle it managed not to smash the ice and knock him underwater. It was hard to care about that little detail at that moment, though.

The name was apt. Grand, elaborate swirls of silver gleamed much like the ice did in the moonlight, decorating dark skin. A robe of powdered snow and threaded flakes hung from broad shoulders. Winter-white hair framed an immaculately beautiful face in long strands, half-concealing eyes that were like ice- firm and hard, yet joyously reflective as the light shone off it.

“You…” Daryl gawked, unsure of how to compose himself. “Y-you are-”

_**What is the name they call me now?**_ The being spoke, yet his mouth did not move.

The king swallowed hard. “The Painted Man. Patron Spirit of the Sea of Glass, and guardian of the lost.”

He nodded. _**I see. And you have asked me respite? Mercy?**_

“Yes.” Replied Daryl, after a moment of hesitation. “Healing.”

_**But you know, dear king, her fate was not my doing? Their sorrow was not dealt by my hand.** _

The man reeled. “O-oh, no, that isn’t what I meant! I had no intention to blame you for- !”

And then, to his surprise, the spirit _laughed._ It was a strange noise, powerful, yet gentle.

_**Humans. As skittish as squirrel kits. Show me your offerings.** _

Daryl gestured to his small array. “Claim it all as your own, if you so wish. It is all yours to keep.”

He watched the spirit’s expression shift, yet never at any point could he say for certain what he was feeling. Every item his eyes fell on sent the king into an uneasy introspective, wondering if he could have done a better job, brought something more valuable or expensive as an offering.

_**I see.**_ He eventually said. _**A fine menagerie.**_

“Does that mean you accept my offer?”

Another gentle laugh. _**Silly human.**_

Daryl could feel his heart sinking. A hand extended toward him, not to strangle the life out of him but to brush the messy forelock out of his eyes.

_**A fine menagerie of offerings. But there is one more thing I request before I fulfill your bargain.** _

He gave another dry swallow. “Anything. For my people’s well-being, anything.”

_**I request your hand.** _

The chilliness of the night finally seemed to permeate his insides. Daryl shivered. Still, he placed a hand onto the pommel of his dagger, and unsheathed it from his side to offer up to the being standing over him.

“Do what you must.” He said solemnly. When the dagger left his grip, he continued to offer his empty hand. “If it brings my people respite.”

Daryl held his breath, anticipating the inevitable. After many tense moments, a strange sensation stung one of his fingers. He bit back a noise, bracing himself for the flare of pain he expected to follow it right after. 

It did not come.

“What…?” With more hesitation, Daryl opened his eyes and looked up. Something glinted in his vision. A familiar silver ring, inlaid with blue stones, had been placed on his finger.

Any grace or dignity he had left was long gone. The king stumbled over his words. “Y-you- I’m- what is this?”

_**The terms of our contract.**_ The spirit replied, looking at Daryl fondly. _**In exchange for your hand, Illyria will prosper once more.**_

His eyes went wide with realization. _“Oh…”_

In contrast, the other’s brow creased. _**You appear confused. Do you object to this arrangement?**_

For the first time, Daryl felt warmth bloom across his face. “Not in the slightest.”


End file.
